


Star

by theEmpressGeneral



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gardener Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Original Character(s), Sassy Crowley (Good Omens), Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), a lil bit of fluff for ya, but so is the oc, crowley gets a career, crowley is a bit of a meanie head, gardening competition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theEmpressGeneral/pseuds/theEmpressGeneral
Summary: Crowley gets into competitive gardening!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 2





	Star

Matthew Wilson had had a very bad day. He’d just been to the Tadfield Ladies’ Garden Display as part of his job as a garden competition judge and found that despite their high repute, none of the ladies had anything even resembling top-quality horticulture. He’d been forced to sit and drink tea with cucumber sandwiches all day long, and he was tired. Worse yet, he wouldn’t even be home until tomorrow. He was staying at a local hotel. He hoped his cats were doing okay, and his plants. He’d hired a professional plant-sitter for them, but she had a suspicious air. 

Mr. Wilson had been into gardening for a good deal of his life, and his hydrangeas were reputed to be the best in the country. He worked hard to keep them that way, too. His dining room shelf was stacked with trophies and honorable mentions, and after many years, he had finally been appointed a professional judge. From now on, he would not be the one competing, but the one awarding the prizes. He couldn’t wait. The crowds . . . the acclaim . . . he had hoped to find a good gardener to sponsor and promote to the National Semifinals in Tadfield, but that had been dashed. His first contest was only a month or so away. He didn’t have much time. As a judge, he wasn’t strictly allowed to train other gardeners, but as long as they weren’t entering his contests, well. 

Anyway, it was all very frustrating and he was just about to give up, go home, and rant about the State of Competitive Gardening in this Country when he saw something which stopped him in his tracks: the most beautiful, most luscious, most  _ elegant  _ garden he had ever seen. 

For a couple seconds he was unable to speak, eyes roving over the green expanse, jaw fully dropped. The garden was made up primarily of greenhouse plants, the kind that you often see plastic models of, but this was no plastic. There wasn’t a spot on them, not a hole, and they grew tall, almost obscuring the house they belonged to. There were other plants, too, flowers and herbs with the most perfect leaves he had ever seen. It looked like Eden, and he itched to meet the gardener responsible and ask them what their secret was. This was revolutionary. This was life-changing. This was the best gardening he had ever seen. 

After a moment, he snapped out of it, and wasted no time marching up to the door and ringing the doorbell. No doubt, he had found his protege. They would go to Nationals together -- then to Europeans -- then to World -- he could see the crowds now, cheering, a row of judges holding up solid tens, the fame, the acclaim, a special on the news. A reporter asking him what the secret was to being such a fabulous coach. His name in gardening history books. Oh, this was gonna be good. 

A middle-aged man wearing formal dress and a puzzled expression opened the door. He had an aura of righteousness and kindness around him, and Mr. Wilson instantly disliked him. Nice people pissed him off; they always had. What were they trying to pull, anyway? 

“May I help you?” the annoying man asked. He was fiddling with a gold pocketwatch hanging from one of his doublet pockets, the snob. 

“Are you the owner of this house?” Mr. Wilson demanded. 

“Why, yes, I am. What do you want with it?”

“Did you grow those plants?”

The man smiled. “Oh, no. That was my husband Crowley. Would you like to meet him?” 

Husband. Huh. Well, whatever got him to Nationals. “Yes, please.” 

“One moment. Do come in.”

“Humph.” Mr. Wilson came in and stamped his feet on the doormat, which said ALL ARE WELCOME HERE in obnoxiously perfect cursive. He hung his coat without being asked and sat down on the couch. 

“Crowley, dear!” the man called upstairs, then turned to Mr. Wilson with a gracious smile. “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Humph. No way.” 

“Alright.” The man sat down. Mr. Wilson took a moment to look around the room. It was oddly decorated: half matched the man in front of him, and was cushiony and grandma-esque, and the other half was rather punk-rock. He hoped the man’s husband wasn’t very punk-rock. “What’s your name, sir?” the man in front of him asked. 

“Matthew Wilson,” he grunted, still looking around. The couch he was sitting on was surprisingly comfortable, despite being black leather covered with pastel throw pillows. “Yours?”

“Aziraphale.” The man smiled again. He did that a lot. Too much. 

“Last name?”

“Hm?”

“What’s your last name?”

“Oh, um . . . Fell.” 

“Aziraphale Fell?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale winced oddly. Mr. Wilson didn’t care. He just wanted to meet his husband. 

Just then someone came waltzing in, wearing the most dramatic, most rebellious outfit Mr. Wilson had ever seen. He hoped to god it was just their child. His hopes were crushed when the man sauntered over and sat in Aziraphale’s lap. The man made a little surprised sound and tried to push his husband off. “Dear, we have guests!”

“Hello,” the man said, grinning broadly at Mr. Wilson. He wore ridiculously tight black jeans, a low V-neck shirt, and a black suit coat draped over his shoulders. He had dark sunglasses and flaming red hair. “You want something?”

“Er, yes.” Mr. Wilson tried to compose himself. Think of Nationals. Nationals. That shiny gold trophy on your wall. “Did you grow those plants outside?”

“So I did. Like ’em? They’re very well trained.”

“Er -- trained?”

“Yep. Yell at ‘em like people. Makes ‘em behave. Not a spot, or they go. Best plants in London, they were. Now they’re the best plants in Tadfield.”

“Ah, yes, I can tell.” What the devil was up with this crazy man and his pompous husband? Mr. Wilson couldn’t wait to leave. Screw Nationals; this man was beyond hope. 

“What do you want with them?”

“Well, I” -- it was now or never. Did he want the gold trophy or not? -- “I was hoping to enter them in a competition.”

The man frowned. “Competition?”

“Um, yes. Mister . . .”

“Crowley. Anthony Crowley.”

Thank God, a normal name. “Mr. Crowley. Your plants are phenomenal. Your garden is, quite honestly, the best I’ve ever seen. I’m a professional judge for garden competitions, and I can function as a coach as well. I believe you and I have a good shot at the championships.” 

“Uh-huh. And what makes you think I’d join you?”

Mr. Wilson blinked. “Pardon me?” 

“What makes you think I’ll join you? If my plants are as good as you say, and I have no doubt that they are, why would I want to join up with a stale old-timer like you?” 

“I--” Mr. Wilson was astonished. No one had ever spoken to him this way. “I just thought--”

“Right, you thought. You thought you could come waltzing into our house with your sad old face and your contempt and your clear disdain for our ‘lifestyle’--”

“Dear, please,” Aziraphale protested.

“--but I’m here to tell you that you can’t. If I want to take my plants to Nationals, I’ll take them myself, but I will never, ever submit my babies to the wiles of an awful old man like you.” 

Mr. Wilson was  _ boiling.  _ How dare this youngun speak to him that way! He’d show him he was boss. He’d show him -- 

But wait. There was still the issue of Nationals, and the young man had shown he had more than enough spirit to prove himself. He could almost see the golden medal hanging around his neck. The reporters -- the acclaim -- it would be a dream come true. But if he had to work with this  _ man . . .  _

Mr. Wilson took a deep breath and plastered the nicest smile he could manage onto his face. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. You seem to have things all wrong. I have no problem with you or your husband at all. All I am interested in is your plants. Would you mind selling them to me, for a reasonable price?” If he hurried to transplant them, maybe he could keep some of that lusciousness alive. And if he paid the man to come care for them every week . . . 

“No.”

Mr. Wilson blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No. Way. I love my babies, and there is no way in heaven I am selling them to some close-minded stranger. You’re talking to a brick wall,  _ sir.”  _

The  _ insolence _ ! But no -- the medal -- “What if I pay you to come take care of them every week or so?”

“Still gonna be a no. I’m not going to ever part with my planties. Am I, Aziraphale?”

His husband nodded vigorously. Mr. Wilson cut his eyes at him. Annoying pringle. 

“Fine. What will it take for you to take your plants to Nationals under my name?”

“10 grand and a favor, to be called in anytime. For that, I’m yours. And I promise you, I will win.”

Mr. Wilson gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a poor man, but ten grand was a lot for anybody, even him. Could he manage it? Certainly. But he’d have to move out here, and sell his old house, including the fertile soil he had cultivated for years . . .

“I’m in.” 

“Excellent! Look forward to doing business with you.” The man called Crowley leaned forward and shook his hand, still grinning. Mr. Wilson stifled a sigh. It was going to be a long, long three months. 

  
  



End file.
